


The Girl Who Came To Baker Street

by krabapple



Category: Millennium Trilogy - Stieg Larsson, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:10:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krabapple/pseuds/krabapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re an odd looking group, John thinks, stuck with handing the cabbie some cash while the others pile out and head up the walk.  Then again, there’s nothing for it; Lisbeth certainly has her own aesthetic sense, as distinct as Sherlock’s if far less formal.  And if she looks odd in the company of three other men, she certainly doesn’t seem to feel odd - -she’s practically plastered to Sherlock’s side.</p><p>Not that John has noticed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl Who Came To Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inmyriadbits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inmyriadbits/gifts).



> The story is set after Sherlock's return from his post-Reichenbach adventures.
> 
> The rating refers to some swearing and implied sexual situations.  
> 

For the last five months, John has done exactly two things upon waking in the morning. 

First, he holds his breath. 

Second, he listens for Sherlock. 

The sounds Sherlock makes in the morning can vary from minutely small (the clink of a glass slide on the microscope, shuffle of the newspaper) to annoyingly loud (tuning the violin, singing in the shower -- and yes, Sherlock, John has found, does sing in the shower, in a surprisingly off-key baritone; John reckons _someone_ in the Holmes family was a Beatles fan, though he has no idea who). But John listens for them all the same. At first, he didn’t realize he was doing it, not until the day that he stood outside Sherlock’s bedroom door at 7:30 a.m., heart pounding in his ears as he listened intently. Sherlock had opened the door and John had stumbled back, mumbling some kind of apology cum explanation that Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at as, fully dressed, he stepped around John and went down the stairs, the front door closing behind him with a click. John thought then that it had to stop, but it hasn’t.

Today, John hears Sherlock clearly, soft thuds reaching John’s ears. An experiment? Rearranging books on the bookshelf? Sherlock has been fussing with the bookshelves incessantly lately. He pulls books off and rearranges them again, in organizational patterns that make no sense to John. Of course, half the time the books don’t make it back to the shelf without John’s assistance, left strewn in piles tall and short around the sitting room, the kitchen, and once, memorably, even the sink. John even caught Sherlock dusting one evening when he came home from work at the A&E early, felled by a bad cold he had seen in almost every non-urgent patient for a week. Privately John isn’t sure if this is some kind of new obsessive-compulsive behavior or if Sherlock is screening for intelligence devices, but he doesn’t ask, and Sherlock offers no explanation.

John counts eight thuds before he hears something else: the doorbell. Single ring, maximum pressure just under the half second. Client. _Ah._

 

***

 

John shaves, brushes his teeth, dresses, and comes downstairs to find Sherlock has pulled his chair forward and is sitting opposite their guest, who is sitting on the sofa and holding a mug of something steaming (did Sherlock actually make tea?) while looking at Sherlock with a smile at the corner of his mouth. The man is well dressed, and has carried with him a black messenger bag, which is still slung over his shoulder though it is resting on the couch. He’s rather tall, probably as tall as Sherlock, with close cropped blonde hair. He reminds John more than a bit of Daniel Craig, except that he rather doubts Daniel Craig is sitting on their sofa.

“Allow me,” Sherlock says, gesturing to their guest. “Mikael Blomkvist, my colleague John Watson. John, Mikael Blomkvist.”

John nods at Blomkvist. “Good morning.”

“And to you, Dr. Watson.” When Blomkvist speaks, his English is heavily accented.

“Swedish,” Sherlock says, as if reading John’s mind.

“Indeed,” Blomkvist agrees.

John nods, looking at Sherlock, who is wearing a blindingly white button down and black suit. John can see his reflection in Sherlock’s shoes. Sherlock’s posture is ram-rod straight and he looks . . . slightly irritated. John’s not sure if that’s right, and if it is right, then why Sherlock is irritated. They could use a client, a mystery; Sherlock’s about a day and a half away from picking the lock to the Sig’s lockbox, if John is any judge.

Sherlock continues as if Blomkvist hadn’t spoken. “Mr. Blomkvist here is a journalist, an owner and editor of the magazine _Millennium_ , along with one Ms. Erika Berger, who is also Mr. Blomkvist’s on-again-off-again lover, though mostly off-again as of late, as far as I can tell.”

John shoots Sherlock a sharp look, which Sherlock ignores. 

“You would also be interested to note, John, that Mr. Blomkvist was once convicted of libel in Swedish court, against one Hans-Erik Wennerström. The court was wrong, of course, as they often are, and Mr. Blomkvist’s subsequent expose and book about Wennerstrom were quite the sensation.

I believe that Mr. Blomkvist and I also have an acquaintance in common: How is Henrik Vanger these days?”

Blomkvist puts his mug on the table and John doesn’t miss the slight downturn of his lips before they reverse into a polite smile. “I haven’t seen Mr. Vanger in quite some time, I’m afraid,” Blomkvist answers.

“That is a shame,” Sherlock says. “I remember him being quite a kind man, with above average intelligence.”

Blomkvist raises his eyebrows. “You know Henrik?”

“Of course,” Sherlock says smoothly. “My father did some business with the Vanger family quite a number of years ago. The acquaintance was quite short, however, though not for monetary reasons. I believe Mummy was never comfortable with the Vangers for any length of time, at least in their company, and my father bent to her wishes in this matter. Quite rightly, too, it turns out, doesn’t it?” Sherlock asks.

“How would you know --”

Sherlock shrugs. “I was quite young at the time, of course, and was just starting to develop my skills for deduction. Again, a shame, or Martin Vanger could have been discovered some time earlier.”

John has no idea what Sherlock is referring to, but considering the full-on frown Blomkvist is sporting now, and the crinkles of pleasure at the corner of Sherlock’s eyes, John is pretty sure a gauntlet has been thrown. John has never known Sherlock to talk so much, or so freely, about his family; of course he would do so now to prove some kind of point. John finally pulls his chair next to Sherlock’s and sits. It seems he might as well be comfortable for this.

“Quite interesting, Mr. Holmes,” Blomkvist says. “My colleague does seem to think you have some skills in investigation.”

John raises his eyebrows. _And the game is on_.

“Your colleague,” Sherlock repeats, the words practically dripping scorn.

“Ah, yes, my colleague. It came to her attention a few days ago that you worked with New Scotland Yard on this case.” At this, Blomkvist pulls a file folder out of his messenger bag, flips through it briefly, and drops a photo on the table. It’s a glossy, 8” x 10”, and of a dead body at a crime scene. John takes a closer look; they did indeed work with Lestrade on this case, a little over a week ago. Young man, early twenties, black shirt, jeans and denim jacket. Stabbed three times -- once to the heart, once to the liver, once near the spleen; clearly a professional job judging by the precision of the stab wounds. They’d spent four days with the case before Lestrade had waved them off in frustration. All they’d been able to do was provide a tentative ID from a year old missing persons case, something the police could have done on their own. Other than that, no leads; Sherlock had a theory about a drugs death, but that was all, and pretty obvious, even to John. So Blomkvist had brought them a recent cold case. That explained the irritation, and then some.

Sherlock merely raises one eyebrow, a silent _and_.

“We worked on the case,” John supplies. “We ah --” he looks at Sherlock. “We didn’t --”

“Solve it,” Blomkvist says. “Yes. Well. That may be because my colleague doesn’t think it was an isolated event.”

John notices Sherlock has edged slightly forward in his seat. “A serial killer?”

“Of a sort." Blomkvist reaches into his bag again. He pulls out a stack of papers and started flipping more photographs on the table. “Sweden, Sweden, Italy, France, France, Spain, Germany, Austria, Sweden, Wales.” With each country name comes a photo, now arrayed on the table. They are all young people, teens or early twenties, of both genders. Some are stabbed, some shot; John notices at least two execution-style gunshots to the head. “Now, London,” Blomkvist says, gesturing to the photo of their case.

Sherlock’s eyes are flicking back and forth, tracking over the photos. “Different genders, different means of death . . . no singular style or viewpoint . . . no signature --”

“Except for possibly one,” Blomkvist says.

Sherlock looks up so quickly his curls bounce. “You’re saying I missed something.”

John looks at Blomkvist, then at Sherlock. _Well, this is quite something_ , he thinks.

“I’m saying . . . my colleague thinks there is a connection.”

“Then your colleague is wrong,” Sherlock says. It sounds calm, but John knows the difference between Sherlock calm and Sherlock icy.

“Your victim had a tattoo,” Blomkvist says.

Sherlock’s eyes become slits. “On the back of the neck. Chinese symbol for beauty.” His voice is disdainful. “Let me guess, the others have that tattoo as well.”

“All of them,” Blomkvist says. “In the same place.”

“Them and thousands, perhaps millions, of others,” Sherlock says.

“All of whom are also dead?” Blomkvist asks. He and Sherlock stare at each other for a moment; it’s John who clears his throat, which makes Sherlock turn away and look at him.

“It’s a connection,” John says.

Sherlock looks at him intently, though John isn’t sure what he is looking for.

“What do we have to lose?” John asks.

Sherlock inhales sharply and turns back to Blomkvist. “To be clear: you and your colleague are hiring me. You are engaging my services, and the services of Dr. Watson, in the pursuit of this theory.”

“Yes. Money is not an object,” assures Blomkvist.

“It’s not money that’s my concern,” Sherlock says. “My concern is that I am a professional, Mr. Blomkvist, and my skills are impeccable. I am both precise and thorough and I am not to be trifled with. My time is not going to be wasted on an _amateur's whim_.”

Blomkvist merely looks at Sherlock. “Understood.”

“Then you may meet us downstairs at precisely ten tomorrow morning, at which point we will begin.” At that, Sherlock stands and leaves them room. John hears his bedroom door slam shut.

 

***

By the time Blomkvist gets back to the hotel, Lisbeth is sitting in a chair by the window, smoking, looking at the London street below. She’s dressed only in one of the hotel’s fluffy white bathrobes, her feet tucked underneath her on the chair. Her hair is still wet, probably from the bath.

Blomkvist walks over and holds out his hand. Lisbeth fishes a cigarette from her pack and hands it to him; he lights it from the lighter on the table and take a drag. She looks up at him from the window.

“They agreed?”

“They agreed.” Blomkvist nods, blowing out a stream of smoke. “We are supposed to meet them at Baker Street in the morning.”

“Excellent,” Lisbeth says. Blomkvist smiles.

 

***

 

John gets up the next morning and comes downstairs, still dressed in his pajamas. He finds Sherlock, clad in his blue dressing gown and sleepwear, at the bottom of the stairs, propped against the door frame leading to the sitting room. Sherlock’s standing perfectly still, and John follows his gaze. There’s a small woman asleep on the sofa, fully dressed and using a leather jacket as a blanket; it’s tucked around her shoulders.

“At least it’s not Irene Adler,” John says. “Better go put the kettle on.”

He does.

 

***

Lisbeth holds the cup of tea the short one, Watson, gave her. Tea. How English. She’d woken up a little while ago to the sound of the tea kettle whistling. The one with the dark hair, Holmes, had been typing away at his computer; he’d looked up briefly at her when she sat up but otherwise had continued to type until Watson had emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of tea, toast, and marmalade. Watson had put the tray on the table in front of Lisbeth and handed her the tea while Holmes pulled up a chair.

“Don’t you have coffee?” Lisbeth asks, setting the tea back on the tray.

Watson and Holmes exchange a look. “Third cabinet on the right, next to the French press,” Holmes says smoothly.

“Yeah, right where I put it,” Watson says. He rolls his eyes but turns and walks back into the kitchen.

 _Interesting_ , Lisbeth thinks. She reaches over and slathers some marmalade on toast. “Does he always do just as you say?” she asks.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches. “Almost always.”

“Sometimes puts up a fuss then,” Lisbeth concludes.

“Does yours?” Holmes asks.

Lisbeth takes a bite of toast. “Almost always.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Mine doesn’t have a blog, though,” Lisbeth says.

“No, he just writes for a national publication.”

“Trivial differences.” Lisbeth takes another bite. 

“Somehow I doubt that,” Sherlock says, picking up a piece of dry toast just as Watson returns with a full French press and mug. “There’s no one else like John Watson.”

Said John Watson blinks at the statement, but otherwise doesn’t comment, setting down the mug and pouring coffee into it.

Lisbeth drinks it black and thinks about what Holmes’ statement -- John Watson’s silence -- might mean.

 

***

 

Blomkvist meets them promptly at ten and they take a cab to the home of William Tate. Sherlock and John’s previous evening had been filled with cold silence and file searching by the former and a quite thorough Google search on Mikael Blomkvist by the latter. Sherlock’s search, at least, had turned up a four month old missing persons report on an eighteen year old woman, Layla, filed by her father, William Tate. Tate had listed a tattoo, on the back of his daughter’s neck, as a distinguishing feature. John agreed with Sherlock that it was as good a place to start as any.

They’re an odd looking group, John thinks, stuck with handing the cabbie some cash while the others pile out and head up the walk. Then again, there’s nothing for it; Lisbeth certainly has her own aesthetic sense, as distinct as Sherlock’s if far less formal. And if she looks odd in the company of three other men, she certainly doesn’t seem to feel odd - -she’s practically plastered to Sherlock’s side.

Not that John has noticed.

Sherlock has just rung the bell when John jogs up the small flight of stairs to the house. For the second time today John is reminded of Irene Adler -- the house bears an uncanny resemblance to Adler’s, though perhaps it’s more due to a lingering sense of money than of anything else. John comes to a stop next to Sherlock and stands at attention.

The door suddenly swings open. “Sorry, Laura, love, but Molly’s been having a bit of trouble cleaning her room up today, and I told her she can’t go over to play until --” the young woman comes to a sudden stop, looking at the group on the doorstep.

“Oh. You’re not Laura,” she says.

“No,” Sherlock says. “But you’re the nanny.”

“I. Yes. Can I help you?” The woman has tipped the door closer to closed than it was when she opened it.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, and these are my colleagues John Watson, Lisbeth Salander, and Mikael Blomkvist. We work with the MET and we’re investigating Layla’s disappearance. Is Mr. Tate home?”

“No, he’s away on business,” the woman says. “Mary Morstan.” She takes the time to shake everyone’s hand. “I -- if you have a card or something I’d be happy to leave it for Mr. Tate.”

“Actually, would you mind if we spoke with you? It’ll only take a few minutes.” Sherlock’s voice is at its most charming. John nearly winces.

Mary glances back into the house for a moment, then looks at Sherlock. “Can we talk in the garden?” she asks. “I left the children there, and --”

“You’d hate to leave them alone for too long, of course,” Sherlock finishes. “We understand perfectly.” He punctuates this with a smile. Mary smiles back, and John can’t help but smile as well.

“Come in, then.” Mary opens the door and ushers them in. They all walk through the long hallway toward the back of the house, which leads to a kitchen. The kitchen has a back door, which opens up onto the garden. Two younger children, aged about seven and five are currently running around the large garden screaming; they seem to be playing a game, but so far the rules of it are lost on John. An older girl, a young teenager, perhaps around fourteen, is on her back on one of the stone benches, a book raised in the air in front of her. None of them look up when the adults enter.

“Billy, Molly, slow down! And I know we are outside, but let’s do try to keep those voices down -- no noise complaints from the neighbors!” John notices that the children do slow down, if only a bit. Mary glances at the girl reading, but otherwise doesn’t say anything to her.

“I’m not really sure how I can help with Layla, but I’d be happy to try,” Mary says.

“You do know her?” Sherlock prompts.

“Yes, I’ve been with the family since Billy was born, about five years ago.”

“Five and half, I’d say, judging by Billy’s height and the maturity of his features.”

Mary’s eyes narrow slightly, but then open again. “He has an October birthday, and it’s May, so that seems close.”

Sherlock hums, but is otherwise non-committal. His gaze flicks to the older girl, then back again to Mary. “So, in spite of being a Cambridge educated English major, here you are, Ms. Morstan, a nanny to three children, one of them reluctantly, and the fourth is missing.”

Blomkvist looks at Sherlock. “Are we really going to let him do the interviewing?” he asks, but Lisbeth is focused on Mary, and John merely glances over, shrugging just slightly.

Mary doesn’t say anything at first, but she does stand up a little straighter, and she tugs on her ponytail to secure the hair. “Layla is eighteen now, and even if she weren’t of age, she went to live with her mother over a year ago. Melanie doesn’t think she needs a nanny anymore, but she does borrow my books quite regularly, as you can see. Bought that one at a library sale when I was at university, though you’ve likely figured that out already.”

Sherlock blinks. John hides a smile in his hand by feigning a cough.

“Layla went to live with her mother,” Sherlock repeats.

“Yes. Mr. Tate and his first wife divorced ten years ago, but not before they had Layla and Melanie. Mr. and Mrs. Tate were married eight years ago, and then they had Molly and Billy. I was hired when Billy was born and Molly was two.” Mary pauses, turning around slightly, “Billy! No squishing bugs please!”

“You seem to have the proverbial eyes in the back of your head, Ms. Morstan.”

“I’m good at my job, Mr. Holmes.”

“It’s why you have it that is what I don’t understand,” Sherlock says. John notices that Lisbeth has wandered away quietly and is chatting with Melanie, who is currently nodding her head.

“Because I’m well-educated.”

“Among other things.”

“Such as?”

“Your parents are quite comfortably well off. Nothing approaching true wealth, but they are both professionals with good incomes. You had a scholarship at Cambridge but not a full or even very sizable one; took a bit off the top but it wasn’t strictly necessary, more of a nod to your academic prowess than anything else, which is considerable by most modern standards, though not my personal ones.”

John groans and rubs a hand over his eyes.

“You’re well dressed, particularly for your job, which requires that you encounter mess on a regular basis, particularly with Molly who, as you said, seems to have a bit of an aversion to cleanliness. You live out, of course, and your apartment is modest, but you are able to live alone, not a small feat here in London. I can’t do it.”

John frowns a bit.

“Your jeans are quite fashionable, well cut, even if you are petite, and therefore well tailored. The hem is impeccable. Your top is at least three years old, so you don’t always keep up with the latest fashions, but your clothes and shoes are maintained quite well. Your hair is pulled back, likely out of convenience and as a nod to the more physical parts of your job, but the cut is, again, well-done and the color job, though not far off of your natural color, just a few warm highlights, is professional. That did not come out of a box.”

John briefly considers how Sherlock knows anything about women’s hair color, but then decides he probably doesn’t actually want to know in case Sherlock decides he needs to perform more research, particularly if it would involve John as a test subject -- and it would.

“What I want to know, Ms. Morstan, is why the Tates would hire you.”

“The Tates hired me, Mr. Holmes, because I am good with their children and my references are stellar. By your standards, I’d have to be a working class slob who barely passed secondary school in order to be a nanny, and I think that says far more about your upbringing than it does mine. Nannying is my career by choice; I love children. I was going to teach, but frankly I get more, and better quality, time with my children than most teachers do theirs. Nannying also pays better, and as you’ve noticed, the Tates pay better than most.”

Sherlock lifts his chin but otherwise says nothing.

“My parents are quite happy with my choice, in case you were wondering, though my mother’s a psychiatrist, so she might be better suited to answer any other questions you might have about whether or not my choice of a career is an attempt to mother others as a way to fix my own childhood angst about having a working -- and therefore sometimes absent -- mother.”

John risks a look at Sherlock, and grins.

“Layla was under your charge until she left home, is that right?” Blomkvist asks.

Mary turns to him. “Yes, she was.”

“So you knew her well?” Sherlock interrupts.

Mary nods. “Layla is lovely. Like most girls her age, I suspect, and she got into a bit of trouble at the end there, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

“What kind of trouble?” John asks.

“The usual kind -- boys, a little alcohol, drinking on the weekends at parties, that kind of thing.”

“I infer her father didn’t approve,” Sherlock says.

“No, but nothing out of the ordinary. Slammed doors and curfews, nothing serious.”

“Then why did she go live with her mother?”

At that, Mary looks away. Her eyes track Molly for a moment, who is drawing on the stones with chalk. She sighs. “Layla took the divorce harder than her sister. She loves her father and likes her step-mother just fine, but I don’t think she had quite gotten over it.”

Sherlock looks at her for a moment, but doesn’t press. Lisbeth gets up from where she was sitting on the bench with Melanie, and walks back over.

“Ms. Morstan, do you have a phone number where we can reach you if we have any more questions?”

“Of course,” Mary says.

“John?” Sherlock says.

John looks up. “What?”

“Program Ms. Morstan’s number into your mobile so that we’ll have it if necessary.”

John shrugs, but takes his mobile out of his pocket and confers with Mary briefly. When they’re done, Blomkvist hands Mary his card. “If you think of anything else, or Mr. Tate would like to get in touch.”

Mary nods, and shows them out to the sound of Molly and Billy’s laughter.

 

They’re barely out to the street, Sherlock trying to hail a cab, when Blomkvist says, “She’s trying protect someone.”

“Who?” John asks. 

“The father?” Blomkvist ventures. A muscle in John’s jaw jumps at the implication, but Lisbeth is already shaking her head. Sherlock and Lisbeth exchange a look.

“The girl,” Sherlock says, and Lisbeth nods.

“The trouble was worse than she made it out to be?” Blomkvist says.

“I doubt it,” Sherlock says. “But the trouble with the mother is likely significant.” John doesn’t even say a word before Sherlock says, “Think about it, John. Divorce after two children and over a decade of marriage, but he doesn’t remarry right away, so I doubt there was an affair, at least on his part. Grew apart, irreconcilable differences, perhaps, except for the fact that the father seems to have gotten full custody of the children in the divorce. Unusual. Not unheard of, certainly, but still unusual. Why?”

John frowns as Sherlock makes a rude gesture at a cab that wouldn’t stop for them. “Substance abuse -- alcohol or drugs?”

Sherlock nods. “Quite likely. Drugs are probable. If it were alcohol, the parents would have been more upset about the daughter’s dalliances in drinking.” He turns to Lisbeth. “Did the other daughter say anything?”

Lisbeth shakes her head. “Nothing in particular. She’s worried about her sister, but wouldn’t talk about her mother, even though she gushed about her father.”

“Idolizes the responsible parent,” Sherlock says, typing into his phone.

Lisbeth nods. “The opposite of her sister.”

“Indeed.”

A cab finally pulls up, and Sherlock opens the door. “Everybody in,” he says, and John sighs.

 

***

 

“Well,” Blomkvist says. “No one has been here in quite some time.”

John looks around the flat, and he has to agree. Sherlock had been able to pull up Lilith Tate’s address, and now the four of them are standing in her empty flat (Sherlock had picked the lock -- nothing like a little breaking and entering on a Sunday). The flat itself is large and fairly nice (alimony, John assumes), well-constructed, but the decor, for lack of a better term, is decidedly on the side of squalor. There’s a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, plates so encrusted and the smell so pungent that they tell John they’ve been there for weeks, at a minimum. Clothing covers every available surface, and there’s a layer of dust on the furniture and the telly. The bed in the bedroom, however, is made, which strikes John as incongruous. 

“At least three weeks,” Lisbeth confirms, idly picking a jacket up off the couch.

“Less time than her daughter has been missing,” John notes as Sherlock pulls on a latex glove and picks one of my spoons off the kitchen table.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just sniffs the spoon delicately before letting it drop to the table with a clang.

“You’re thinking she went the same way as her daughter,” Blomkvist says to John.

John shrugs. “Don’t know, but it seems reasonable.”

“Unfortunately, heroin binges are unpredictable as a rule,” Sherlock says. “It’s one of the things that makes them so enticing.”

John raises his eyebrows at that but doesn’t comment. “So we’ve hit a dead end, and now we have a missing woman in addition to her missing teenage daughter.”

Sherlock blows out a breath of frustration, but his gaze is tracking across the room, looking for clues.

“Hardly,” Lisbeth says. Sherlock and John both turn to look at her. “But I’ll need your laptop.”

Sherlock looks her up and down, and then raises an eyebrow. “Done.”

 

***

Watson brings her a cup of tea and puts it at her elbow on the desk as she types, while Holmes hovers over her left shoulder, peering at the screen. Lisbeth is fairly sure he’s not following very much of what she’s doing, but he’s still trying to take in the information, his gaze flicking back and forth. Holmes’ understanding of technology is good but primitive, Lisbeth thinks. He uses email and runs his website, but aside from knowing some coding he seems limited. His laptop had shown her as much when she’d hacked it in Stockholm; it was all standard issue, aside from a few very interesting British government passwords that were well hidden and a password protected, encrypted folder named _John_. Lisbeth had had to do a few upgrades to the computer before she could even start to track Lilith Tate. 

Holmes’ technology use is still better than Watson’s, who uses internet based email, runs his blog on a simple template that had been pre-coded, and whose computer is very poorly password protected. Watson has some standard documents on his hard drive, namely his CV, and a small stash of pornography in a password protected folder. The folder is probably a nod to privacy from Holmes, though Lisbeth doubts it would keep Holmes out if he went snooping, which it didn’t look like he had. Watson also keeps his web history pretty open, and there are a number of links to porn in that. Lisbeth wonders if that porn is a ruse to keep Holmes away from that folder, considering what it contains -- mostly women and men in standard situations, but there are two files featuring suspiciously tall, dark-haired men with other men. It seems likely.

She turns first to the standard-issue financial tracking: bank statements, bills, credit cards. None of this is very fruitful, which Lisbeth finds slightly frustrating. There are monthly direct deposits to Lilith’s bank account from Tate’s account. Alimony, a sizable amount but nothing special. No other payments coming in, so Lilith clearly doesn’t keep a job. There are cash withdrawals from the account every few days; they are small enough that Lisbeth thinks they are for living expenses: food, toiletries, etc. There are larger withdrawals of cash about twice a week, usually into the hundreds of dollars which Lisbeth assumes goes to drugs -- the cash is always for the same amount and the schedule is so regular Lisbeth could keep time by it. Clearly payments to a dealer. The cash makes it untraceable, though, which Lisbeth finds irritating. Lilith pays her bills via credit card, so those are traceable, but unexciting. She has clearly set up a monthly payment schedule, even on her rent, which goes to a property management company. It’s so organized that Lisbeth wonders if Tate or someone else, maybe the daughter or Morstan, set it up for her. The kind of drug use that Lilith engages in doesn’t exactly lend itself to organization.

“So the financial search hasn’t turned up anything,” Holmes says. He sounds more disappointed than smug, which Lisbeth gives him some credit for, but again, she realizes how limited he is in this regard.

“No,” Lisbeth admits. “But I’m not done yet.” Watson turns to look at her from where he is sitting in a chair by the fireplace, and Lisbeth is tempted to smile. Blomkvist, in the other chair, does smile.

Lisbeth brings up two new screens. She uses one to email Plague, a short message and a burst of code. In the other she brings up one of her programs and starts typing in binary. Plague’s reply comes fairly quickly -- he must be bored. Lisbeth emails back her thanks, an offer to help with his latest project if he needs it.

Thirty-eight minutes later and a third screen pops up on the computer. Lisbeth would be disappointed in how easy it was, but she’s too excited by the prospect of new information. Holmes actually draws in a sharp breath behind her.

“What?” Watson asks, looking up from the newspaper.

Lisbeth spares a look behind her. Holmes’ hands are steepled in front of his face, but his eyes look positively . . . jubilant. Lisbeth allows herself a small smile.

Watson looks from Holmes to Lisbeth and back again. “What?” he repeats, getting up from the chair to walk over to them.

“This may in fact be the best thing I have ever seen,” Holmes breathes. 

Blomkvist stands up and comes over, too.

Lisbeth splits the screen and Holmes gasps again.

“Sherlock, what --” Watson stops as he gets a good look over Lisbeth’s shoulder. “Wait. Is that? Christ.”

“CCTV footage. She hacked into the CCTV system,” Holmes breathes.

“ _Christ_ ,” Watson repeats.

“I have the current feed from cameras in Lilith’s neighborhood on the left, and the feed from about three weeks ago, the estimated time of her disappearance, on the right. I thought if we could track her movements it might give us an idea of what happened. She’ll be easy enough to recognize from the photos in her flat.”

“Oh. My. God,” Holmes says. The look on his face is akin to glee. 

Watson looks at him and then says, “You have no idea how happy you’ve just made him. Really. No idea.”

Blomkvist looks at them for a moment and then turns to Lisbeth. “Has she shown up yet?”

Lisbeth shakes her head, scanning images. “Not yet, but if she’s using --”.

“She might be holed up in her flat,” Blomkvist finishes, looking intently at the screen.

The phone in Holmes’ pocket starts to ring, and Holmes and Watson share a grin.

“There she is,” Blomkvist says, pointing. It’s one of the images from three weeks ago. Lilith has stopped at an ATM to get cash. Lisbeth clicks and saves the image.

Holmes’ phone starts to ring again.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Blomkvist asks.

“I prefer to text,” Holmes says smoothly.

As if on cue, Holmes’ phone beeps three times in succession, indicating newly received text messages.

Watson stifles a laugh into a cough.

“She seems to be moving into frame again, meeting someone,” Blomkvist says as Lisbeth continues to work, tapping the typepad rapidly. “It’s a male, average height and build. Back’s to the camera mostly.”

“If that’s her dealer, he’s probably wary of the cameras,” Holmes says, as his phone rings again. Blomkvist looks at him.

This time, Holmes fishes the phone out of his pocket. Without even looking at the caller ID on the screen he presses the button to answer. “Fuck off, Mycroft,” Holmes says, and then hits end. Watson laughs out loud this time.

“Oh,” Blomkvist says, and Lisbeth looks up at him.

“What?” Watson asks, leaning over Lisbeth to look at the screen. Lilith and her dealer are in the middle of quite a public snogging session.

“Predictable,” Holmes says as his phone begins to beep rapidly.

“Still disappointing,” Lisbeth says. Sex between a woman and her dealer. How banal and cliche. 

“Wait,” John says, pointing to the screen. Lisbeth has managed to capture the couple from a different angle. “Look at the back of her neck.”

Lisbeth looks. There’s a grainy, dark spot between Lilith’s collar and the tips of her bun. “Tattoo.”

“I’d bet it’s the Chinese symbol for beauty,” Blomkvist says.

“I want to know who that dealer is,” Holmes says.

“I can keep searching footage, see if he shows up again and we can see his face. From there it should be easy to run a photo recognition exercise,” Lisbeth says.

Holmes nods, more beeps coming from the phone in his pocket. “John, I want you in the field.”

“Excuse me?”

“You still have Ms. Morstan’s mobile number.”

“Yes, why?”

“Arrange to meet her for a coffee or something, in case we run into a dead-end here. She might know more about the mother and her associates than she was letting on.”

Watson sighs. He gestures to Holmes’ pocket, “He’s just going to show up here, you know.”

Holmes nods. “On the way here, most likely.”

“So what are you going to do?” Watson asks.

Holmes grins. “ _Enjoy it_.”

 

***

The next morning, John’s sitting in the coffee shop down the street, sipping tea and waiting for Mary Morstan. They had agreed to meet after Mary drops the children off at school. John had arrived a little early, not exactly eager to get out of Baker street but not sorry to go, either. There had been a great deal of shouting when Mycroft arrived the night before, including threats about arrests and national security. Nothing that had particularly bothered anyone who wasn’t Mycroft, it seemed, since Lisbeth’s reaction had mostly boiled down to the fact that he was welcome to try, but that she could repeat her results any time she wished. After that, Mycroft had not exactly backed down, but he also seemed stymied. The only way of shutting Lisbeth out would be to shut down the system entirely, and Mycroft was reluctant to do that. In the end, he had left after giving them vague threats and a twenty-four hour limit.

John thought Sherlock was going to explode from the excitement. 

He’s not entirely sure Lisbeth won’t end up with a job offer, either. What Mycroft can’t control he’s usually happy to co-opt.

Mary appears in John’s line of vision carrying a cup of coffee. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says, putting down the cup and sitting. “I saw that you had your own drink and thought I would order before I joined you.”

“Of course not,” John says, and smiles. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Mary takes a sip. “Sorry I’m late; it was kind of a rough morning.”

“No one wanted to go to school?”

Mary considers. “Melanie gets off on her own well enough since she started walking on her own this year, and Molly loves school, so she’s no trouble. Billy does alright most days, except for the days he’s particularly testy about his clothes. Depending on what he wants to wear and what I want him to wear, it can take a while.”

“I take it today was one of those days.”

“He was in a full-on fit with his mother by the time I arrived.” Mary sighs.

“There’s more to it,” John prompts.

Mary looks at him, and John finds the corner of his mouth crooking up slightly of its own volition. 

“It’s a hard line to tow sometimes,” Mary says. “Judith is his mother, and she loves him dearly, and believe me, the feeling is mutual. And she’s his mother. I try to make her the ultimate authority, Will, too, but it’s difficult at times when I would do something differently than they would.”

“Like let him pick out his own clothes,” John guesses.

Mary shrugs slightly. “I think he has some very minor sensory integration issues; he can be picky about how clothing feels, or the textures of some foods. Nothing he probably even needs help with from a professional; most of us have some of those tendencies. But a little too much starch in his shirt, like the one today, and . . . well. It’s a uniform, choosing another shirt from the closet wouldn’t have hurt anything. But to Judith they were all the same shirt, anyway.” Mary shrugs again, looking up and smiling. “But I don’t think you are here to ask me about Billy,” she says.

John shifts in his seat a bit. “Not exactly, no.”

“Not just a social call, either, though,” Mary says smoothly.

John blows out a breath. “No. And some of the questions may be a bit . . . indelicate in nature.”

“I would assume,” Mary says.

“I. Well. How much do you know about Lilith Tate’s drug problem?” John reckons he might as well just jump in with both feet.

Mary sighs. “A bit. I mostly try to stay out of it, out of professional courtesy. It’s not really my business, as long as it doesn’t affect the children.”

“Except it does affect the children.”

Mary nods. “It was fairly simple to figure out when I first started with the Tates. Visitations were supervised; even if I wasn’t in the room I was told not to leave the premises when Lilith was with the children, even with the social worker there. Little by little some of the story leaked out. It had started with alcohol, then moved on to things like marijuana, some prescription pills. Eventually heroin became her drug of choice. That was before the divorce.”

“But she’s still using,” John says.

“Yes. It’s obvious. At first she tried to clean up when she saw the girls, but over time more and more cracks began to show. Mellie grew more distant, withdrew from her -- started to refuse to talk to her on the phone, things like that.”

“But Layla . . .”

“Layla was devastated by the divorce. She was too young to really understand what had happened, but she still cared.”

“Do you know anyone Lilith was social with after the divorce? Friends? A boyfriend, maybe?”

Mary shakes her head. “Once I took the girls to her flat -- Will set her up with it, pays a credit card in her name that’s attached to the bills. I think he’s trying to keep her as stable as possible, but ten years of drugs use takes its toll. Anyway. Once I took the girls to her flat to visit, and there was a man there. She introduced him to the girls as her friend.”

“Boyfriend, you think?”

“Maybe.”

“Did she give you a name?”

“All she told us was that his name was Andy.”

“Description?” A voice comes from slightly above them, and both Mary and John look up to see Sherlock standing over the table.

John groans and rubs a hand across his jaw.

Mary looks at Sherlock as he pulls up out one of the extra chairs at their table. “Dark hair, bit of scruff, about 5’ 10” or so -- average.”

“Average,” Sherlock repeats.

Mary shrugs. “It was maybe a year, year and a half ago.”

“Did Lilith have a tattoo at that time?” Sherlock asks.

Mary appears to think. “Not then, I don’t think . . . I don’t see her that often, really. Next time I saw her, she did. Then Layla got one just like it a couple of months later. I thought it was a combination of wanting to be like her mum and rebellion; it certainly didn’t go over well with her father.”

“So her mother got one about a year ago, Layla one, what . . . eight months ago?” Sherlock prods.

Mary frowns. “Maybe. I’m not exactly sure.”

“Well, be sure,” Sherlock says.

“Sherlock,” John warns.

Mary regards Sherlock for a moment. “Layla’s was probably about eight months ago, yes. She had it at Billy’s birthday party, but the heat of the argument had mostly blown over by that time.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Probably.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John hisses.

Mary glances at John. “It’s fine, John, really.”

John sighs.

“I’m not a consulting detective like you, Mr. Holmes, but I am fairly observant. You learn that working with children.”

“We said we worked with the MET,” Sherlock says.

Mary smiles ruefully. “I’m sure you do. Not this time, though.”

John blinks, and Mary looks at him and smiles, more genuinely this time. “You think that I don’t watch telly, or read the papers, or haven’t read your blog? As if I don’t know who the famous Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are, especially since one of you actually managed to resurrect himself from the dead without divine intervention.”

“No one said there wasn’t divinity involved,” Sherlock says dryly.

“Well, I think you do probably think of John as a higher power.” Mary smiles. “I’m not sure why you had to intervene here, though. John was performing a perfectly well-done interrogation.”

“Mary,” John starts, but Mary waves a hand at him. 

“I’m not offended,” she says. “If you really are working to help Layla, I’m happy to help. Besides, you have a nice smile.”

John flashes that smile, unable to help himself.

“Flattery,” Sherlock says.

“Truth,” Mary counters.

Sherlock narrows his eyes and considers her. “I trust John implicitly,” he finally says. John’s mouth drops open just a little.

“I’m sure you do,” Mary says. 

“That’s not why I came,” Sherlock says, as if Mary hasn’t just agreed with him.

“No, I think you came because you’re insecure,” Mary says, and this time John’s mouth opens even further.

Sherlock leans back in his chair. “I can assure you I’m not insecure, Ms. Morstan,” he says.

“Not about the work, maybe, but John isn’t all about the work for you, I don’t think.”

Sherlock’s gaze could cut glass.

Mary shrugs. “I could be wrong, but . . . just my observation.”

There’s a moment of silence at the table before Sherlock abruptly says, “John, I’ll meet you outside,” and stands up and leaves the table, walking out of the shop.

“I. Well.” John says.

Mary smiles. “Really, John, don’t worry. It’s all fine.”

John tilts his head. “You don’t happen to be free for dinner tonight, are you?”

“I get off work at six.”

“Do you like Indian?”

“There’s a good Indian place a few blocks from the Tates. I could probably be there by six thirty.”

“I’ll see you then,” John says, grinning. He pauses. “I’d better go before Himself decides he’s waited too long.”

Mary nods and smiles good-bye as John gets up and leaves the table.

He finds Sherlock standing outside the shop, watching people pass by. Sherlock starts to walk back to Baker Street immediately, and John hustles to fall into step with him.

“The man’s name is Andrew Grant,” Sherlock says. “Lisbeth found enough of a face to capture it and match it to his file in Interpol. Some petty arrests for drugs, one minor assault. He’s in Interpol because his record spans a few European countries.”

“Wait,” John says. “Lisbeth hacked into Interpol?”

Sherlock merely glances at him and keeps walking.

“This happen while I was gone?”

“No, it happened about five a.m.”

“And you had me meet Mary anyway?”

“I thought you liked her,” Sherlock says, and keeps walking.

 

***

 

When Blomkvist wakes from his nap, he finds Lisbeth has already dressed again and ordered room service; he can smell coffee and eggs, and Lisbeth is eating a bagel with cream cheese and jelly at the table. Blomkvist gets up and stretches; they’d been up all night with Holmes working on the case. Watson had disappeared to bed for a few hours, but Lisbeth had worked without a break. They had parted ways when Watson went to meet Morstan, at about eight. Blomkvist is slightly surprised that Lisbeth is awake already, as he’d only been asleep for about three hours himself.

“I spoke with Holmes,” Lisbeth says as Blomkvist walks over and pours some coffee. “He found a current address for our drug dealer, something about his homeless network. We’re meeting Holmes and Watson there at three.”

Blomkvist hums and helps himself to some eggs and sits. “That was quick.”

Lisbeth shrugs. “It’s better that way.”

Blomkvist is tempted to tell her that’s not what she’d said when they had returned to the hotel, but he refrains. Instead, he studies Lisbeth a bit over his coffee. She looks tired, but not overly so, and she’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, her usual attire, really. Still, something is nagging him at the corner of his mind about her, even if he’s not sure yet what it is.

He decides to take the direct approach. “Something’s bothering you,” he says.

Lisbeth glances up at him, but quickly looks away.

Blomkvist works not to frown in frustration. She’s been more emotionally truthful with him for a while, and he doesn’t want to undo all of her work on that. He opts for simple. “Lisbeth.”

This time, Lisbeth looks at him, and holds eye contact. She sighs. “I’m confused,” she admits.

“Do you want to go over the case piece by piece?” Blomkvist offers.

Lisbeth shakes her head. “It’s not the case. I. The case is difficult . . a mother and daughter . . .” Lisbeth trails off.

Blomkvist nods. He doesn’t like any of the implications for that, either.

“It’s, well. It’s Holmes and Watson.”

Blomkvist raises his eyebrows in surprise, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t understand them.” Lisbeth pauses in frustration. “Well. Holmes I do understand, mostly.”

Blomkvist nods again. He’d thought as much, thought that was one reason Lisbeth had been eager to get them involved, other than their proximity to the last murder. He doesn’t know how long she’s been following Holmes’ exploits, or how much, but it’s easy to see that in her own way, Lisbeth is a fan. She admires shrewd thinking and action, and Holmes does both. He doesn’t bow to social convention, either, which Blomkvist is sure Lisbeth appreciates about him; he’d certainly taken Lisbeth as she is, and he seems to admire her skills -- more things she would be unfamiliar with, but like. In fact, watching the two of them the night before had made Blomkvist just a bit jealous; they seemed to get each other in a way Blomkvist was still feeling out with Lisbeth after all this time.

“Is it Watson?” Blomkvist asks.

Lisbeth considers this for a few moments. “No. Not . . . no. I don’t understand him as well as Holmes, but. Well, I think he’s quite like you.” She doesn’t quite smile but she says, “Kalle Blomkvist.”

Blomkvist doesn’t smile, but it’s a close thing. He knows what she means. He can read Watson’s integrity in the way he holds himself when he stands. Something else Lisbeth isn’t very familiar with, but which she would like. Watson actually reminds Blomkvist more of Lisbeth than himself; then again, Lisbeth's morality, while it has the strength of stone, isn't exactly conventional. Though maybe Watson's isn't either.

“It’s them together that I don’t understand,” Lisbeth admits.

This time, Blomkvist does smile. “They’re friends.” He can’t help but lace that statement with a little sarcasm.

Lisbeth’s mouth quirks. “The same way we’re friends?” she asks.

Blomkvist laughs. “Maybe they should be.”

“Are you trying to say they’d be better off if they fucked?” Lisbeth asks. She says it lightly, and not without humor, but Blomkvist can read the sincerity in the question.

“It’s possible,” Blomkvist says.

Lisbeth thinks for a moment. “So why don’t they?”

Blomkvist smiles. “Because nothing’s that simple,” he says, and drinks more coffee.

He thinks Lisbeth might say more, but she seems satisfied for the moment.

 

***

 

Andrew Grant’s building is a simple, modern multi-story unit in the East End. 

_Welcome to the 2012 Olympics_ , John thinks.

The four of them take the lift up to the tenth floor and find their way to #14. Sherlock knocks, and they wait.

Lilith Tate answers the door.

John’s head comes up sharply, and he feels Blomkvist straighten beside him.

“Lilith Tate?” Sherlock asks, smoothly.

“Yes.” Lilith is dressed in jeans and a worn-out gray t-shirt. Her hair is pulled back in a sloppy bun, and she’s barefoot. Her eyes have a glazed look, and John wonders if she’s high even at this very moment.

“May we come in? It’s about your daughter, Layla,” Sherlock says. 

Lilith steps back, but she doesn’t open the door any further. “I’m not sure,” she says.

“You’re not sure that you want to help in an investigation involving your missing eighteen year old daughter?” Sherlock asks.

Lilith seems to deflate just a bit further. “Come in,” she says, adding, “But it has to be quick.” She opens the door wider, and Sherlock uses his hand to push it all the way open while John, Blomkvist and Lisbeth walk in behind him. Lilith goes to hover over the sofa.

“Is that because Andrew Grant could be back at any time?” Sherlock says.

“Andy’s my boyfriend,” Lilith says.

“Hmmm, yes,” Sherlock says, gaze sweeping the flat. “And your drug dealer. How convenient for you.”

At that, Lilith stands up straighter. “Did my ex-husband send you?”

Sherlock says a simple, “No,” and then goes to stand by the window, using his fingers just a bit to pull the curtain far enough that he can glance outside.

“Because if he did, he had no right to do that. I have visitation, you know.”

“When was the last time you visited with Layla, Ms. Tate?” Sherlock asks.

“Over four months ago,” Lilith crosses her arms over her chest.

“Because she went missing four months ago, yes,” Sherlock says. “I thought she had come to live with you before that.”

Lilith blinks. Lisbeth makes a small hissing sound behind John. He’s not sure what she’s seen or thought, but it puts John on edge even more.

“She did. She was of age. Could make her own choices.”

“Indeed. So why mention visitation?” Sherlock asks.

“Because I still have a right to see my Mellie.”

“Except ‘your Mellie’ has no desire to see you, does she?”

John frowns, almost warns Sherlock, but he stops when he sees Blomkvist’s frown out of the corner of his eye.

“I can’t say as I blame her, seeing as you sold her older sister to your dealer slash boyfriend to pay off your drugs debts.”

“That’s not true!” Lilith shouts. John can tell even from where he’s standing that Lilith is shaking, though from rage or fear, John isn’t sure.

Sherlock merely sighs. “Of course it is, Ms. Tate.”

“Layla wanted to join herself,” Lilith says.

“Join what?” John asks.

Lilith seems to become small, as if trying to hide. She rolls in on herself a bit, head bowing. “If I say, I’ll be in trouble.”

John thinks for a moment how utterly ridiculous it is that a forty-eight year old woman is talking like a preschooler. He wants to feel contempt, but all he really feels is sadness.

“Ms. Tate,” Sherlock says sharply, and loudly. Lilith jumps. “Is your daughter already dead?”

Lilith looks up quickly. “No, no! Of course not! No! In fact, she and Andy are just out right now. They’ll be back -- you can see for yourself.”

John raises his eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

Lilith’s mouth becomes a thin line.

“Why would you let your husband file a missing person’s report if your daughter was here with you?” Blomkvist asks.

Lilith doesn’t answer, but Sherlock snorts in contempt. “Was it lingering bitterness about the divorce or the fact that to say your husband would disapprove of his teenage daughter moving in with a drug dealer is an _understatement_?” The last word rolls off Sherlock’s tongue almost in a vibrato.

Lilith seems to gather herself. “That is a family matter. Now that you know where my daughter is, and that she’s alive, you can see yourself out.”

No one moves. Blomkvist takes a photograph out of the messenger bag he’s carrying. He shoves it toward Lilith. It’s the photo of the young man found stabbed to death, the one Sherlock and John had worked with Lestrade. “Do you recognize him?”

Lilith peers at the photo, but John notices that she doesn’t take it from Blomkvist. Her face pales as she looks at it. “That’s Dean.”

“Dean --” Blomkvist prompts.

Lilith shrugs. “Just Dean. I didn’t know his surname.”

“I see,” Blomkvist says, sliding the photograph back into his bag. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Lilith starts, but stops suddenly. John heard it, too: the sound of the doorknob turning on the front door.

“Hey, Mum, they were out of marmite, can you believe that, but we got some jam instead --” Layla Tate trails off abruptly as she enters the flat to find four strangers and her mother. She stops short, and the man they had previously identified as Andrew Grant nearly runs into her back.

Andy shuts the door behind him and says, “What’s all this?”

“Drugs bust,” Sherlock says, eyes narrow. John sees Lisbeth tense.

“They were just here asking after Layla,” Lilith says. “That’s all.”

“Well, yeah, here I am,” Layla says. John looks at her; she looks ten years older than she did in the recent photograph in her missing persons report. He frowns.

“Yes, here she is,” Andy says. “So if William Tate isn’t satisfied, tell him to piss off.”

Sherlock moves away from the window and walks toward the group; his hand cups John’s elbow briefly as he moves to stand beside Lisbeth.

“What I don’t understand,” Sherlock says, “is why a mere drug-dealer would murder several people across several countries. You can’t be that high up in this nice little familial smuggling ring you have here. That’s what Layla is doing for you, of course, smuggling heroin to and fro like the young thing she is; lucky you got her mother hooked on the stuff or you wouldn’t have had anyone to sacrifice to your boss when he came calling. It must be a nice little network -- it is all across Europe after all -- smugglers, dealers, users. Have to get a tattoo to mark them, but I'm sure they're eager to pay that price. They're probably even proud of it. What a neat little ecosystem. You just weed out the ones who no longer want to participate by killing them.” Sherlock pauses. “Why you though? Convenient for the London murder, sure, but Spain? Sweden? Germany? All those deaths are connected, of course; it’s the work of a singular mind, even if the way those people are killed is all different -- helps keep it off Interpol that way. Not even I made the connection. Though I suppose there are people who just find their calling, if killing can be called a calling. I do know it’s you, Mr. Grant; your hand span is the right size to hold a knife comparable to that used in Dean’s killing, and I would put a wager on the fact that you have some medical training in your background that allows your killing to be so precise. And then there’s the handprint on the Spanish body. Slapped her hard, you did. Have no idea why, but it will match to your hand clear as day.”

Andy looks surprisingly calm. “You can’t prove anything you’re saying. Now if you’ll excuse us.” Andy gestures toward the door.

“Holmes,” Lisbeth says.

“Yes, I know he’s armed,” Sherlock replies. “John.”

John pulls the Sig from his jacket pocket and holds it almost casually, letting it come to rest in his hand against his leg.

“Fortunately, so are we,” Sherlock says. “Now, do we do this the easy way, or the hard way?”

Andy actually looks like he’s considering that, so John raises the gun level to Andy’s head.

“Blomkvist?” Sherlock asks. “I did give you Lestrade’s number.”

“Calling it right now,” Blomkvist says, taking the phone out of his pocket.

“Don’t look so worried, Andrew,” Sherlock says. “The gun will be gone by the time Lestrade opens the door.”

 

***

 

“Keyser Soze,” John says, and Mary laughs. John is walking Mary back to her flat after their dinner. It’s a clear night, and even a few stars are visible even under the glare of the London lights. He’s filling her in on the case as much as possible, but he’s also enjoying making her laugh, the way her mouth crinkles in at the corners.

“And Sherlock had no idea what that meant,” Mary says.

John laughs. “No, and I am offended by that, seeing as how I showed him that movie. He said he’d deleted it. And here I thought of all people Sherlock Holmes would find _The Usual Suspects_ interesting.”

Mary laughs again, but then sobers. “So this guy was actually the head of the organization, not just one of its drugs dealers.”

John nods. “The dealer part was merely cover. Turns out he’d been a field medic in Afghanistan, which is how he’d gained the medical knowledge -- and the killing knowledge.” John pauses, tries to push away how familiar the story seems to him. “Let’s just say he made some very profitable contacts in the poppy industry while he was there,” John finishes.

Mary points to a building on the right, “This one’s mine.” She continues to walk a couple of steps until she is facing John instead of standing next to him. “I’m just relieved Layla is well.”

John considers telling her that “well” might be an overestimation, but he knows what she means -- the girl is alive and, for now, relatively safe back home with her father and stepmother. “I know. I was afraid -- well. I’m glad there was a happy ending.”

“Do you think she’ll face charges?”

John shakes his head. “I doubt it, not if she cuts a deal, which she almost certainly will. Lestrade is tough, but I don’t think he wants to see her go to prison.”

Mary nods, but doesn’t say anything.

John takes a moment to take her in. She’s wearing knee-high brown boots with a denim skirt, just a sliver of knee visible. She has on a white-button down with a red jacket, and her hair, a warm brown, is down. She quite obviously changed and refreshed her minimal make-up between work and meeting John, but he’s not quite sure how -- she had made it to the restaurant on time, even if John was late, rushing out of the MET as they were still wrapping up the case. He can see the brown of her irises even in the pale light from the streetlamp.

For once, he says what he’s thinking. “I’d like to kiss you right now.”

“I’d like you to,” Mary says, and then John’s leaning down just a bit, catching Mary’s mouth with his own. It’s relatively short and chaste -- a bit of open mouths, but nothing further. John pulls away and hums.

Mary opens her eyes, and looks at John. “I would love to invite you up,” she says.

He gently reaches out and scoops the hair off her shoulder. “So why do I hear a 'but' at the end of that?”

Mary sighs. “Sherlock --” she starts, and John groans.

“Not Sherlock,” John says. “Please don’t start any sentence like that with _Sherlock_.”

Mary smiles. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t know, I can think of a lot.” John pauses. “Look. Sherlock can be annoying, and intrusive, and demanding --” John trails off.

“Why do I hear a 'but' at the end of that?” Mary asks.

John rubs a hand over his face. Mary holds both palms in front of her in the universal gesture of defense.

“It’s not any of that,” Mary says. “I actually like Sherlock.”

John blinks. “Really?”

“Really. He’s . . . unconventional, but there’s nothing wrong with that. Except for the rudeness.”

John laughs.

“It’s.” Mary stops, shifts from foot to foot. “When I was eight, my dad had an affair.”

“I.” John scrambles at the seemingly sudden change in conversation. “I’m sorry.”

Mary waves a hand at him. “Don’t be. They’re still married, 23 years on. I didn’t find out until years later, well after I’d left for uni. I just knew that that year was hard, that _something_ had happened. My dad was sleeping in the guest room, and my parents weren’t talking to each other much. My mum’s temper was short all the time. My sister and I spent as much time out of the house as we could. I practically lived at my best friend’s house.”

“Okay,” John says.

“The thing is, one day, my parents were talking more. My mum had more patience. Then they moved into the same room. We started having dinner together again eventually. It wasn’t until my Mum told me about it that I understood what had really happened. It wasn’t better overnight, but it got better. And I’ll never forget what my mum told me she learned that year, too: that forgiveness isn’t something you feel, it’s something you do.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Sherlock didn’t cheat on me.”

“No, but you think he betrayed you, don’t you?”

John has to swallow away the sudden lump in his throat. _Damn it._ And that’s it, John can feel it slipping, feels the shimmer in the air the minute the moment changes, the very second that he and Mary slide from possible lovers to friends.

Mary smiles, and it’s a little sad, but warm. She reaches out to close her hand around John’s arm, and she gives it a squeeze. “Ring me some time,” she says. “I’d love to catch a coffee every now and then.”

John nods.

 

***

When John gets home, he climbs the stairs and opens the door to the sitting room. It’s dark, lit only by the light of the kitchen and a laptop. Lisbeth is sitting in Sherlock’s chair, Sherlock’s laptop in her lap. She’s typing furiously, wholly concentrated at the task at hand. John goes to the sofa and sits, leans his head back until it hits the back of the sofa, and closes his eyes.

“I’ll go up in a minute, I just need a second. Don’t mean to disturb you,” John says.

Lisbeth takes so long to respond that John had already thought she had decided to ignore him. “I don’t understand,” she says.

John lifts his head off the couch and tries to focus. “Pardon?”

“I don’t understand you and Holmes,” she says. “Blomkvist tried to explain it to me earlier, but it still doesn’t make sense.”

John rubs his eyes. “Look, no offense, but I’ve already had one woman try to tell me the God’s honest truth about Sherlock and me tonight, and that was one too many.”

“It’s what you hide from each other,” Lisbeth continues. John groans, but he knows she’s completely serious.

Still, his temper snaps. “Listen, I have no idea what you think we’re hiding from each other, but you’re talking about the man who keeps samples of my hair, saliva and skin on files of slides. He can tell you in minute detail about every habit, quirk, or breath I’ve taken in the last three years. We live together, we work together, and believe me, no one can fake being the annoying dick that he is for that long.” It’s been a long day.

Lisbeth just looks at him, a long look that John nearly shifts under. “I’ve hidden things from people before,” she says. “Almost everything, from everybody.” She pauses, bites her lip. “I’m trying to be better about that. At least with one person.”

“Good for you.” John sighs.

“Everything I’ve kept hidden is because someone could use it to hurt me,” Lisbeth says. Her tone is completely matter-of-fact, but John’s a bit shocked by the intensity of her voice, of the words themselves.

“But what you two hide wouldn’t hurt, so I’m not sure why you would, especially with each other.”

“Because he’s not _gay_.” Sherlock’s voice comes from the kitchen, where he’s standing just behind the sliding doors, and the tone could flay flesh from bone. Lisbeth’s gaze quickly darts to him, but by the time John is up from the sofa and moving in the direction of the kitchen Sherlock has disappeared, the only evidence that he was even there the firm slam of his bedroom door.

“I, I don’t even know what to do with you,” John says to Lisbeth, heading into the kitchen toward Sherlock’s bedroom. “No offense,” he throws behind him.

“None taken,” Lisbeth whispers, and goes back to her email.

 

John swings the door of Sherlock’s bedroom open to find Sherlock pacing by the foot of his bed, hands curled into fists in his hair. He slams the door shut behind him, not because he wants Sherlock to know he came in, but because he wants to.

“You’re in my bedroom, John,” Sherlock growls.

“Don’t care,” John says.

“Boundaries, John.”

John presses the heel of his hand into his forehead. “What the hell is she talking about? And for that matter, what the hell are _you_ talking about?”

Sherlock spins once more, then stops pacing, his dressing gown settling around him. “I’m sure she hacked my computer, and probably yours, too, John.”

“Are you kidding me?” John says, and it’s much closer to a shout than he likes.

Sherlock flings his arms up and down, flapping like some wild, endangered avian creature. “The woman hacked into _Interpol_ , John, I think she can handle our computers, particularly since the password to yours is so painfully obvious. We all know your mother liked to vacation in Cornwall when she was a child.”

“Jesus fucking . . . _Christ_ ,” John says. He screws his eyes shut, opens them again. “Still, there’s nothing.” He stops, looks at Sherlock across from him. “It’s not what’s on my computer, is it? It’s what’s on yours.”

Sherlock looks away.

“What could possibly?” John thinks, then holds up his hands. “You know what, you don’t have to tell me, it _is_ private.”

John’s about to leave the room when Sherlock speaks. “There’s a folder about you. It might theoretically contain some incriminating information.”

John thinks, looks up. “What you say incriminating, you mean incriminating to you, not to me.”

Sherlock nods.

“And you said, ‘because he’s not gay’.”

Sherlock nods again, barely a flicker of movement.

“Sherlock, we’re friends --”

“Oh dear God, John, _please_ ,” Sherlock interrupts. “I think the last thing we need is for this to play out as some kind of banal, embarrassing domestic scene wherein you assure me that _no matter what we will always be **friends**_.”

“I was going to say.” John pauses. “I was going to say that there’s nothing you can’t tell me, because we’re friends.”

“How kind of you, John.” This time, there’s sarcasm. 

“Sherlock, what are you hiding?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock’s face is as still as carved marble. “Nothing you are interested in,” he finally says. 

“Because I’m not gay.”

Sherlock remains still. Finally: “There may be some photographs of you. From when I . . . was away. I might have found it necessary on some of my less . . . kind . . . days to see your face. When I returned, I transferred them to my hard drive in a strange fit of sentiment.”

John thinks about this. “What else?”

Sherlock averts his eyes.

“ _Sherlock_.”

“The name and contact information of your would-be assassin, as well as the photographs from his autopsy. I didn’t kill him; Moran got to him before I did.”

“I had an assassin.”

“That day . . . that day. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade.”

“Sherlock,” John says.

Sherlock looks at him, defiant, all sharp chin and cheekbones. “Everyone has their pressure point.”

“Caring is not a weakness.”

“It’s not an advantage,” Sherlock says.

John lowers his head. When he raises it again, Sherlock is looking at him.

“John, please,” Sherlock says, and it hurts John to hear.

“No speeches about how much I love you, but only as a friend,” John says.

Sherlock nods.

“Okay,” John agrees.

A long moment stretches between them before John says what he’s thinking: “I’d like to kiss you right now.” He’s said the same words earlier that night, but this time his voice quivers.

Sherlock’s eyes blow wide, and his mouth drops open. Before John can think about it any more he swoops in, takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses him. Like before, the kiss is chaste at first, but before long John opens his mouth, and Sherlock accepts the invitation.

When they break apart, they stand for a moment with their foreheads together, hot breath lingering softly in the space between them.

“You’re not gay,” Sherlock whispers.

“I’m currently assessing that,” John says, and he can feel Sherlock’s huff of breath. “And Lisbeth might disagree, since she’s seen the real stash of pornography on my computer, not just what I leave for you to find in my browser history.”

At that, Sherlock laughs, deep and low and guttural, and soon John is laughing with him.

***

Blomkvist comes to collect Lisbeth from the flat the next morning, carrying two bags of luggage and rousing Lisbeth from the sofa.

John comes out of the kitchen carrying a mug of tea. “Are you two flying back?”

Blomkvist shakes his head as Lisbeth collects the small things of hers cluttered around the flat: a lighter, some change, a packet of crisps. “We’re taking the train,” he says, and John nods.

Sherlock rounds the corner, fully dressed in a plum button down and exquisitely ironed black trousers. He walks over to Blomkvist and shakes his hand. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says simply.

“The pleasure was mine,” Blomkvist says. "Lisbeth has arranged for money to be transferred into your bank account at midnight." Blomkvist shakes his head as Sherlock begins to protest. "We hired your services, yours and Dr. Watson's. I am sure you'll find your fee reasonable." Blomkvist smiles.

“Lisbeth,” Sherlock says, bowing slightly toward her.

“Holmes. Watson.” Lisbeth acknowledges each in turn with a nod of her head before Sherlock comes over and lightly kisses her on each cheek.

“My best regards, Miss Salander,” Sherlock says. “If you ever need a consultant, you know where to find me.”

Lisbeth looks at him for a moment. “The same to you, Mr. Holmes.”

Lisbeth and Blomkvist exit the sitting room and go down the stairs, bumping their rolling suitcases as they go; John thinks that Mrs. Hudson isn’t likely to care for that much.

Sherlock turns from eyeing the door to look at John. “Did you have anything pressing to do today, John?”

John thinks he got a good start on the most important thing he has to do last night, thanks to Mary and Lisbeth. He smiles. "Actually, yes. All with you.”

Sherlock’s answering grin is close to a smirk.

“But first, I’m going to change my computer password.”

“If it will make you feel better, John,” Sherlock says. “If it will make you feel better,” he repeats, heading into the kitchen to make coffee.


End file.
